


The Older Boy

by trajektoria



Series: The Other [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Fawnlock, Fluff, Humor, Kidlock, M/M, Tiny bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-18 01:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7293211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fawnlock and John are one year older now and their friendship is still as strong as ever. But it's hard to remain close when the world of adults wants to tear them apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1a

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) for turning my scribbles into proper English (articles and perfect tenses are the bane of my existence). You're the best! All remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> We're back to Fawnlock again! Originally, these chapters were supposed to be a part of The Other Boy, but after some consideration I decided to form them into another story. The boys are slightly older here and the topic is more mature, but not too much. As always, there will be tons of fluff (eventually, I promise), so be prepared. I have already written the whole thing, I just need to make necessary corrections, so you won't have to wait for the updates too long (hopefully). The whole story has three chapters, some of them divided into subchapters. And as I type these words, an idea for another chapter is taking shape in my mind, so who knows, there's a chance for more...
> 
> Some elements in this story were inspired by the game Kholat. I was completely enchanted by its phenomenal atmosphere. If you have played the game or watched some trailers on youtube you might recognise a thing or two. Although, obviously, the fic will be nowhere near as dark and messed up as the game itself. 
> 
> Enough of my babbling, enjoy the fic!

Winter that year became bored with the world rather quickly. By the end of January, snow, harsh wind and extreme cold were nothing but a bad memory. On the one hand, that was unfortunate because John could no longer throw snowballs at his forest friend or build snowfawns after school with him. Despite having reached the impressive age of eight, frolicking in the snow still occupied a high position on his entertainment list. But on the other hand, the days were getting gradually warmer and longer, and nature slowly began to wake up from its hibernation. Of course, some time had to pass before everything would turn green and pretty again, but already sprouts, shy and dainty, were poking out of the soil in his grandma's garden. More and more animals in the forest came out of hiding too, their tracks, big and small, imprinted in the wet ground. The birds livened up as well, starting their concerts even before the break of dawn. The echoes of their beautiful warbles reverberated through the air almost incessantly till dusk. 

With the extended daytime, John had more opportunities to play with Fawnlock and he eagerly took advantage of that. It was a bummer, though, that he still had to be home for dinner, preferably before twilight. He tried not to be late or else he could wind up getting grounded. The ultimate weapon against every Watson – house arrest.

John was smart enough not to tempt fate and did his best to be punctual, so one day when he returned home at four pm on the dot and saw his mother waiting for him in the hall, pacing restlessly from one corner to the other, his anxiety levels skyrocketed. He did a short examination of his conscience. Well, today he and Fawnlock had been playing in the overgrown and pretty much abandoned garden of Mr Williams. Had someone seen them? Was he in trouble? 

“Oh, John, I'm so glad that you're back!” his mother said as she locked him in a rib-crushing hug, a look of true relief on her face. She didn't even let the boy take off his jacket before this assault of affection. 

“Um... yeah. I'm back.” John patted her back awkwardly, having absolutely no idea what this was even about. After all, he wasn't home past his curfew, the weather was nice – certainly not hostile enough to warrant any worries regarding his safe return or catching a cold – and no terrorist would bother to terrorise their sleepy village. He couldn't think of any reason behind his mum's irrational behaviour. Unless... 

John's eyes widened, his muscles tensed. Oh no. Two years ago his mother had behaved just like that right before John learnt that his Papa had died. Had something bad happened again? Someone died? Grandma? Harry? No, please no...

“Told you he'd be fine. You're overreacting,” his grandma's voice boomed from the kitchen. So it wasn't her, she was fine. It had to be Harry then. Was she killed by some drug dealers? Perhaps his sister wasn't his favourite person ever, but he didn't want her to die. 

“Is everything okay, Mum?” he asked quietly, not daring to speak above a whisper. His heart was thrumming in his chest so fast, as if he had been running for an hour without a break, and his knees felt so weak that he stood thanks to sheer willpower. 

“Yes, yes, love. Everything's fine.” His mother finally let him go, but not before planting a kiss on his forehead and rubbing his cheek fondly with her fingers. “Wash your hands, dinner's ready.” She turned on her heel and left her very confused son alone in the hall.

John hung his jacket, his scarf and his hat on the rack, and put his dirty shoes underneath it. Then he went to the bathroom, where he cleaned himself just like his mother had ordered him. Hygiene was very important. All the time he kept wondering what had got into his mum to make her behave so strangely. Something must have happened, that much was obvious. Maybe he was still a child, but he wasn't stupid. Had the papers or the news reported a particularly horrible thing today?

When he entered the kitchen, everyone was already sitting at the table, Harry included. Seeing her safe and sound, John relaxed a little. It was probably one of the very few times in his life when he was actually glad to lay his eyes on her. Up to this point he had still been uncertain whether his sister truly was fine or not. It would be so like her to get into serious trouble, more serious than being caught smoking in the school's bathroom. Thankfully, that didn't seem to be the case. But what could it be then? What had made his mum so agitated? 

John took his plate and lifted his fork and knife. However, before he could dig into the chicken, potatoes and tomato salad, he needed to know what was going on. Fixing his gaze on his mother, he made a very determined expression. Time to crack down on all this secrecy. 

“What's wrong, Mum? And don't say 'nothing' because I won't believe you.” 

Mrs Watson exchanged a brief glance with her mother, as if not sure how much she could say. The grandma nodded her assent.

“John, love, was the Anderson boy... what's his name? Phillip? Yes, Phillip. Was he at school today?” his mum asked awkwardly.

John blinked at her, taken aback by the randomness of that question. Surprised, he answered automatically.

“Um... yeah? I guess?”

“How was he?”

John shrugged. Anderson was stupid and mean, and had equally stupid and mean friends. John didn't really talk to him or care about him much. By sheer coincidence they happened to be sitting close to one another in class, but that was really as far as their relationship went. John rarely paid him any attention and vice versa. But thinking about it now, John _had_ noticed that Anderson seemed out of sorts today. He was surprisingly quiet, keeping to himself all day, avoiding even the few people who liked him. His eyes were red and puffy, almost as if he had hay fever, though it was far too early for that. Yeah, something wasn't right. 

“Well... I don't know. He seemed off. Why?”

Before Mrs Watson could reply, Harry chimed in to the discussion. Her voice oscillated between sympathy, fear and a tiny bit of excitement that finally something interesting had happened in their deathly boring surroundings. 

“His dad was killed in the woods!”

“Harry!” Mrs Watson shot her a disapproving glare. “We don't know if he's dead, we don't know what happened to him yet.” She turned to John, finally offering an explanation. “The fact is that Jack Anderson went into the woods yesterday morning and didn't come back. Maybe he was attacked by an animal, maybe he fell into some crevice and broke his leg. We simply don't know.”

“Ha! That would give that old poacher what for,” muttered Mrs Harper unperturbed, which earned her one of Mrs Watson's glares. 

“Mother! Don't say things like that! It's not decent.”

“Why? That's the truth. One shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but if you believe that he's still alive I have every right to call him an arsehole. It's well-deserved.”

Mrs Watson chose to ignore her and went on.

“A few people formed a search group and tried to find him, but to no avail. This forest is huge. They will resume the search tomorrow, maybe with a helicopter's assistance. I hope they find him and that he'll be fine. But until then, you need to stay away from the forest, John. I mean it.”

John listened to all of this in stunned silence. He didn't like the Andersons, but he could imagine all too well what his classmate must be going through. Losing one's dad was very hard. It took him a moment to register the rest of Mrs Watson's words. He looked at her with indignation.

“I'm not in any danger in the forest, Mum!” he protested.

“You say that now, but you can't be sure about that, John. I don't want you anywhere near there. What if he was attacked by a pack of wolves or something? I won't let you risk your life so stupidly. Better safe than sorry.”

“But Mum–“ 

“No buts. And eat your dinner, it's getting cold.” 

John made a face, knowing that no matter what he said now, he wouldn't be able to change his mother's decision. She could be so pig-headed sometimes! John put a chunk of meat into his mouth, chewing at it with as much enthusiasm as if he was eating paper. He lifted his gaze to his grandma, looking for some understanding. She gave him a knowing look in return. She was on his side, aware of the real forces that ruled the forest. He had to speak with her in private later and confer about what to do. 

With that in mind, he ate with more appetite. Well, with more speed at least, almost choking twice on a cabbage in his eagerness. After the meal, Mrs Harper began to collect the dishes. 

“I'll do the washing up,” she said with a smile. Harry raised her eyebrows, but quickly put on the mask of indifference. She knew that it was her turn to clean but had no intention to protest. Any opportunity to avoid a tedious chore was very welcome. 

John took the hint. Staying in the kitchen was a good opportunity to talk in peace far from ignorant ears. 

"I'll help Gran!" he volunteered. If Mrs Watson thought that this was suspicious, she said nothing. 

Harry moved to her room and blasted some horrible music by a band that could barely play the instruments and a lead singer who couldn't sing to save her life. Everyone in the house knew that she always did this on purpose when she was miserable and just wanted to pick up a fight with someone, yell at them to make herself feel a little better. The unknown lot of Mr Anderson must have hit her harder than she let on. She didn't know the family too well, but that wasn't the point. The memories of her own dad must have flooded her, turning her mood sour. This time Mrs Watson, probably quite depressed herself, didn't rise to the bait like she usually did, and refused to scold her daughter. Instead, she went out to visit the neighbours, hoping to hear some news – preferably the good kind – about the whole event. It seemed that she had been planning to do that for sometime now and had stayed home only to wait for John and make sure that he was safe. 

Left alone, John and Mrs Harper could speak freely about things not meant for anyone else. 

“What do you think happened, Gran?” John asked, drying one of the plates with a cloth and then putting it on the table. “Do you think... Mr Anderson is dead?”

Mrs Harper sighed, shaking her head lightly. 

“I don't know, honey. I wish I did. It's hard to say, since no one has found even a trace yet. It's as if he vanished into thin air. But the explanation may be simple. Perhaps he did fall into some hidden cavern. Or stepped into his own snares and couldn't free himself. Or was attacked by an animal, had to flee and lost his way. There are countless possible explanations to what happened, but it's all just speculation now, since we have no real evidence, no nothing. Still... I can think of someone who may know the truth or at least can help with the search.” 

John had no doubt whom she had in mind. 

“You want me to ask Fawnlock for help.” 

“I can't think of anyone who knows these woods better,” she admitted, her pale eyes fixed on her grandson. “Except maybe your grandfather, may he rest in peace, but we sadly can't use his expertise right now. Your little forest friend may be the best chance we have, sweetheart. And the best chance Mr Anderson has. Provided that he's still alive...”

John nodded, a serious expression on his face. The burden of responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders. Probably no one else in the village could help the poor man, no one but him – a pupil from an elementary school. A completely unremarkable boy aside from having one very special friend. 

“I will talk to him tomorrow, Gran. Ask him what he knows. And then we're gonna search ourselves or tell someone else, if it'll be too difficult for us.”

“There's my boy,” his grandma said with a warm smile and pulled him into a hug. As John pressed his face into her belly, he felt a prick of remorse – he had lied to her shamelessly. He wouldn't wait till morning, oh no. If Mr Anderson was truly hurt and lost somewhere in the forest, there was no time to lose. The morning could be too late for him. John had to act quickly, the quicker the better. 

Despite his resolve, John felt a cold shiver running down his spine. He still remembered the last time he entered the forest at night. How could he forget the scene that still haunted him in his worst nightmares? Never before had he experienced such terror as when he saw Fawnlock's mother. And now he had to venture into the forest again. John was a brave boy, but he wasn't sure if he was brave enough to repeat such a feat. Especially because this time it would be even harder. Back then he just carried Fawnlock to a clearing, hoping for the best. But now he had no idea where he should even go. His friend could be anywhere. Probably sleeping too. How was he supposed to find him? It would be worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. With a needle you could always find a big magnet or torch the hay. Here, burning the forest would be rather counterproductive, probably. And nasty too. 

No, John didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. But he also knew that he didn't have a choice. 

He sighed inwardly. The things he was willing to do to fix other people's messes...

Under the pretext of being tired and needing his strength for tomorrow, John went to bed early. He washed himself in record time, put on his pyjamas for the sake of believability and slid under the covers, waiting for his mum to kiss him goodnight like she usually did. His prediction came true surprisingly quickly. She must have spent less time with the neighbours than he thought.

“John?” The door to his bedroom creaked open and John could imagine his mother peeking carefully inside. The boy lay still, pretending to be fast asleep. It would be easier that way. When the answer she was waiting for didn't come, she entered the room on her tiptoes. John felt the mattress sink as she perched at the edge of his bed. She leaned closer to him. For one dreadful moment John thought that she had seen through his deception and would scold him, but he was wrong. Very wrong, as the gentle kiss on his forehead proved. She ran her fingers through his hair. It was a loving, tender gesture that nearly made John melt into a puddle. 

“I know you must be mad at me, John, but I don't want to see you hurt,” she whispered in a wistful tone. John felt morally obliged to protest, but he couldn't break his role of a sleeper. “I love you.” And to make matters worse, she added, “ It would break my heart to lose you.” She kissed him once again and stood up. 

Once the door closed behind her, John opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, conflicted and guilty. Should he really do it? Put himself at risk for a person he didn't even know? What if something truly happened to him? His mother didn't deserve such suffering. Still, John was convinced it was simply the right thing to do. He wouldn't be able to look at himself in the mirror if he backed out now.

“I'm sorry, Mum, but this is something I need to do,” he decided, lifting up his duvet. Even if this turned out to be one huge mistake, at least he could say he tried to be a hero and save the day. Time to go.


	2. Chapter 1b

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) for turning my scribbles into proper English (articles and perfect tenses are the bane of my existence). You're the best! All remaining mistakes are my own.

The trek through the forest was even worse than John had anticipated. The flashlight he took with him did little to disperse the darkness, thicker than London fog. The faint glow of the light bulb in his shaky hand distorted the shapes and shadows, turning them hostile and unwelcome. Even the sky seemed unnaturally black, as if someone had snatched the moon and the stars from the firmament and hid them forever. Either the clouds were dense and large enough to obscure the view, or some other unknown forces were at play. Honestly, John wouldn't be surprised if that was the case.

Instinctively, he felt that something wasn't right. Aside from the sky, so odd and intimidating, other things made his skin crawl and raised the short hair on his neck. For instance – the absolute silence, stillness. The forest seemed dead. John heard nothing but his own quickened breath, his careful footfall on the ground, and – much to his own shame – the chattering of his teeth. From cold, undoubtedly, not from fear, or so he chose to believe. There was no hooting of owls, chirping of crickets, not even the haunting swishing of the wind among the twigs. None of the things that had terrified him so much the last time he ventured into the forest at night. This lull was even worse. The lack of noises creeped him out more than any sound could. He knew what silence meant in the movies – something horrible was about to jump out at him out of nowhere, scare him to death and bite his head off. Not a prospect to look forward to. 

Despite his firm conviction that going out was the right thing to do, John had done all he could to avoid it. He flicked the lights on and off repeatedly in his room, hoping that maybe Fawnlock would notice and come to him, consequently saving his friend from an unpleasant trip. But unfortunately luck wasn't on John's side. He waited and waited until he realised that it was pointless. Although now, after he actually entered the forest, he understood that Fawnlock simply didn't have a chance to see anything. Not with that unsettling absence of any light, as if a dark veil had enveloped the whole surroundings and extinguished even the moon and stars, cutting off the woods from the outside world. What was going on here? 

John had no idea. He wished that his mind would stay vacant of conjectures, but unfortunately his vivid imagination supplied more than enough reasons for that strange occurrence. One thing was certain – the fact that the forest had changed so much after Mr Anderson got lost inside wasn't a coincidence.

Such thoughts coursed through poor John's mind as he trudged through the woods, heart in his throat, practically on the verge of cardiac arrest. Due to such significant translocation of his organs, it seemed impossible to actually say anything, let alone shout. But he knew he had to, he had to let Fawnlock know he was here. And preferably only Fawnlock, not numerous other inhabitants of the forest who lurked somewhere in the darkness. Though they probably were aware of his presence either way, able to sniff out the sheen of sweat covering his body. That thought didn't make him feel any better.

John gulped and licked his chapped lips. That helped him regain a modicum of control over his throat.

“Fawnlock!” he cried out, though it sounded more like a desperate, hoarse whisper. No way the fawn would hear him, even in the silence of the forest. “Fawnlock!” This time the word was louder, even if somewhat squeaky, as if John was not a human boy but a tiny mouse. Still, an improvement in volume. He tried yet again, taking as much air into his lungs as possible. “Fawnlock!”

Nothing happened. The same terrifying darkness and stillness, this graveyard of nature. John felt that his trembling knees could give way at any moment. He looked around frantically, hoping to see some movement, to recognise a familiar shape or smell, to–

Something grabbed his foot.

“Aaagh!” John shrieked, falling to the ground face first into a bush. He struggled, squirmed, kicked and threw punches, trying to break free. He was done for. His last moments, killed by some snake or who knew what while on a quest to save a man who was indifferent to him. Was this the same thing that happened to his dad? At least they both would die a hero. 

The seconds passed measured out by rapid heartbeats and frightened hiccups but the killing blow didn't come. It wasn't time for the youngest Watson to say goodbye to this sad world yet. He rolled on his back, propped himself on his elbows, ready to crawl back and kick as hard as he could, and then faced the monster... only to realise that the hand of the monster was nothing more than a stray root. The boy let out a shaky breath, wanting to cry. Partly from relief, but partly because he was so very, very scared. He just wanted to go back home, let his mum's or gran's warm arms embrace him and– 

Something grabbed his shoulder.

“Aaaaaaa!” he yelled and on instinct twirled around to pound blindly at the aggressor with his flashlight, trying to bash their skull in. If it even had a skull. He hit something, at least; he felt the vibrations from the impact ripple through his bones in his arm.

The attack brought about a cry of pain from the monster and an outraged, “Jóhń!”

Huh?

That gave John pause. His fear dropped to a manageable level, so he risked a glance at the vicious beast he had just attacked, pointing the flashlight at it, though with a more peaceful intent this time. A well-known shape welcomed his eyes.

“Fawnlock!”

His forest friend sat on his haunches, rubbing his curly head furiously. A huge pout appeared on his face that had as much to do with a bruise growing on the side of his head, as with the beam of light, shining right into his face, causing him to blink and squint his watery eyes. John had enough faculties about him to point the flashlight to the ground.

“Fawnlock!” He repeated gleefully. His first reaction was happiness that he had managed to do the impossible and actually find his friend in the hostile forest, but then it dawned on him what he had done to the poor fawn. “Oh God, Fawnlock, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?” An idiotic question. Of course he was hurt. John corrected himself. “Are you badly hurt, Fawnlock? I didn't mean to hit you! I mean, I thought you were a monster or something! Please, let me see, okay?”

Fawnlock rolled his eyes in a very human gesture, but tilted his head a little when John carefully brushed away the matted hair just above the fawn's ear. As far as he could tell in the dim light the injury wasn't serious. There was no blood. His blow wasn't apparently as deadly as he had tried to make it. In this case that was very fortunate.

“I'm really sorry,” he apologised again, making a remorseful expression. 

Fawnlock mumbled something, which John was glad that he couldn't understand, and then the fawn turned to more pressing matters.

“Why Jóhń hęrę?” 

John took a few deep breaths to calm down his racing heart. He was with Fawnlock now, he was safe. And still on a mission, which he intended to accomplish. All that effort, nerves and bruises couldn't be for naught. 

If John had been more observant, perhaps he would have noticed the signs of nervousness in Fawnlock. But he wasn't, so he started to explain unperturbed. 

“One of the men from the village is missing. He went into the forest yesterday and never got back home. His family... well, frankly everyone, is worried about him. Some people tried to look for him, but couldn't find a trace. As if he just vanished into thin air. Puff! Do you know anything about that, Fawnlock? Maybe one of your people has seen him?” John asked hopefully. It would be a terrible shame to go through all this and not learn anything useful.

Fawnlock fidgeted and scratched his nose.

“Fawńłóćk ńót kńów...” He avoided John's gaze and looked almost... guilty? Or ashamed? That alarmed John. 

“Fawnlock, I know you're lying. That's bad, friends do not lie to one another! Tell me what's wrong! You know something, don't you?” The boy insisted. 

His words must have made Fawnlock feel even more awkward. The fawn's ears were pressed tightly to his skull and he made a noise somewhere between frustration and distress, swinging rhythmically from side to side. 

“Uh... Fąwńłóćk ćąń't śąy...” he grunted, his big eyes staring at his friend, as if asking for forgiveness and understanding. But John couldn't give up so easily.

“Why? Why not? You _have_ to tell me! It's very important! That man could die if we don't help him! He could...” John's voice trailed off as the realisation grew within him. “Did your people find him?”

Fawnlock hesitated, but after a moment passed, he nodded slowly. 

John gasped. If the fawns had found him, why didn't they let him go? Maybe the man was injured and they were treating him until he was well again? Still, John had to make sure. He had to check on the man, maybe talk to him, and tell his family that he was fine, since they were worried sick. Well, he'd obviously have to produce some lie to keep the fawns' existence a secret, of course. John didn't like to lie but sometimes it was necessary. For the greater good.

“Fawnlock, you have to take me to him,” John demanded.

That request made the little fawn's eyes open even bigger. 

“Ńó, Jóhń, ćąń't!”

“Why not?”

The fawn fell silent, thinking. Maybe he was simply trying to find appropriate words to explain to John what was going on. His vocabulary, though impressive, was still limited. Especially if he wanted to convey information about the missing man or what was happening to him in the fawns' care. It wasn't like they discussed similar topics very often. 

“Um... Humąń bąd. Ńęęd... um... puńiśh. Ąrguę hów mućh puńiśh...”

“What?” John exclaimed. It was an expression of shock, not a plea to repeat or explain. Oh no, he understood Fawnlock perfectly well, having translated Fawnglish to more British variety. Mr Anderson had done something wrong, something that in the eyes of the forest-people warranted a punishment. And now they were debating what kind of punishment to give him. John had to be there, had to know what was going on. Maybe the human didn't mean to do whatever he had done, or it was all just a misunderstanding. He and Fawnlock had tons of them, and they were just kids. In the world of adults these things must be even more common. So all in all, he had to be there, acting as the man's advocate, if nothing else. “You have to take me to him, Fawnlock. I don't care that you'll have to interrupt the debate or something. I need to be there, make sure that your people understand my people.”

“Jóhń...”

“Please, Fawnlock. This is really important. Really, really. I need you!” John was almost begging him, knowing full well that without his forest friend he would be powerless. He had no idea even where he should go to meet the fawns. And of course, he didn't speak their language. Fawnlock would have to translate from Fawnish to English and back to allow some communication between the species. What if the lack of a common language was the very reason for this situation? He had to find out. 

John kept staring at Fawnlock with pleading eyes until the the other boy relented, albeit grudgingly. His body language, shared by both humans and fawns, spoke volumes as to how much the little fawn didn't want to do it. Well, John, despite his outward eagerness, wasn't too keen either. He'd rather be at home right now, reading a book or watching telly, or even going to sleep early like he supposedly had done. But meeting the fawns was paramount, no other choice. And the sooner they got this over with, the sooner John could take Mr Anderson home. That would be the most desirable outcome. 

Fawnlock stood up, rubbed his head one more time, probably just to remind his friend about the unpleasant incident, and then grabbed John's hand, tugging at it with certain urgency. John scrambled ungainly to his feet and followed him, his faithful flashlight showing them the way. 

“Jóhń. Ńó łight,” Fawnlock said, scrunching his face again. 

“Why?” 

“Ńó łikę it.”

John sighed with irritation, though he obeyed, trusting his friend's judgement in the forest, even if it was questionable and selfish. He turned the flashlight off and instantly they were consumed by impenetrable darkness. Fawnlock probably didn't care, since he could see in the night almost as well as during the day, but John wasn't that lucky. He had a lot of problems keeping up and not falling flat on his face.

“I can't walk in the dark, Fawnlock!” he protested finally, after tripping yet another time.“Do something or I'm gonna turn the flashlight on!”

The little fawn grumbled defiantly, but in the end snapped his fingers, the gesture accompanied by strange word. A greenish will-o’-the-wisp materialised a foot above John's head, casting a bit of light at their surroundings. Everything looked cold and sinister when illuminated in green, but John decided to keep that comment to himself. Better an erratic ghost-like thingy floating nearby than nothing.

In his friend's company the forest stopped being as scary, though it still made John uneasy. The deeper they went into the woods, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. Almost as if it the air itself was poisoned and wanted to choke you, crush your lungs. It had a scentless... scent that John's limited senses couldn't identify, but were aware of its existence nonetheless. Like an invisible smoke sticking to the insides of his nostrils. It left a weird taste in the boy's mouth, something between sea water and freshly cut grass. He couldn't be sure, but he suspected that everything he – and the forest – had been experiencing was because of magic. The high intensity of it changed everything around. And, honestly, it didn't look like the benevolent, harmless magic that Fawnlock used to prank him or amuse him with. This was something far more sinister. 

John gulped. What was he thinking coming here? What could an eight-year-old boy with quivering knees and his heart in his mouth do against such powers? How could he succeed when a grown up man like Mr Anderson had failed, earning himself a punishment? But the more John considered running away, the more he tried to concentrate on his Papa. Papa wouldn't turn away. He would never step back from something that had to be done. He always protected people, even if everything was scary. Though of course Papa wouldn't be afraid, of course not. He was like Captain America, only better, because he had no superpowers to fight the bad guys with, and yet he did it anyway. Like Steve Rogers before he got that injection. 

Finding more resolve in himself, John tried to walk a little faster to keep up with his friend and not lag behind. Fawnlock remained silent, not saying a word, just chewing on his lower lip. He seemed... concerned, as if not certain what awaited them. That didn't exactly inspire confidence. 

“What are you afraid of, Fawnlock?” John asked, his voice shaking a little.

“Fąwńłóćk ńót ąfrąid,” he replied in an equally faltering tone.

After such a response, John decided not to ask anymore. If the inhabitant of the forest was scared, he didn't even want to imagine what was in store for them.


	3. Chapter 1c

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) for making sure that this fic is actually in English. You're the best! All remaining mistakes are my own.

Ten minutes into their hike, John began to hear something. Whispers, barely audible, distorted murmurs of an errant echo. At first he thought that it was nothing more than a trick of his frightened imagination or the hum of blood in his ears, so prominent in the overwhelming silence. But no, the whispers were growing louder with each hesitant step he took. Harsher. Vengeful. Surrounding them, more oppressive than the stale air.

John swallowed hard, clenching his jaws together to stop his teeth from smashing against one another. He could swear that he felt a presence lurking just behind the edge of light produced by the will-o’-the-wisp. Fawnlock hissed and barked something decidedly. John couldn't understand the words, but the tone was undoubtedly conveying 'back off' or a variation thereof. The presence dispersed in the shadows. A cold shiver ran down John's spine despite the fact that sweat had glued his jumper to his skin. Without Fawnlock... he didn't even want to think what would have happened to him.

Suddenly, Fawnlock muttered a spell and the will-o’-the-wisp faded into nothingness. John squeezed his friend's hand with such force, as if he wanted to break all his fingers.

“What's wrong with you, I can't see anything!” he cried out hoarsely, trying to outshout the whispers, now unbearably loud and grating on his eardrums and his nerves. The fawn said nothing, just pulled John forward, continuing their march.

In a heartbeat, John realised why the fawn had extinguished their lantern. They were approaching a clearing illuminated in a similarly unearthly greenish light, but far more intense. Like a halogen lamp compared to a flickering flame of a candle. Enchanted, like a sheep brought to a slaughter, John stepped into the glade with Fawnlock.

All the whispers stopped at once, as if cut by the blade of a knife. The silence, full of outrage if John could identify it correctly, would be ideal if it weren't for the desperate moans of a gagged man lying on the stone slab in the middle of the clearing. Sturdy vines held him trapped to what seemed to be a sacrificial altar  and allowed him no freedom of movement. The man's eyes were unfocused, drugged. Maybe thanks to a small green fire right next to him, giving off that weird invisible smoke that made John's nose tingle. The boy could see the scene perfectly well thanks to a circle of three-metre-high tree stumps standing around the clearing, devoid of any branches or leaves but adorned with antlered skulls. Garishly green runes were carved into the bark, igniting the surroundings with sickly pulsing light. John looked up to the sky. He expected to see the cold, empty vastness of space here as well. But no. The gray, wispy clouds were flashing above with silent thunders, speeding somewhere so fast the whole world seemed to be spinning. The very sight made John nauseous, so he blinked away the tears gathering in his eyes and then turned his attention back to the glade.

He counted on finding the fawns, Fawnlock's family, friends, elders of the tribe if they even had such a thing, someone! But there was no one, no deer-like humanoids waiting for them or debating among themselves. Only shadows, probably of the same kind that had stalked them earlier. John couldn't say for sure how many dark silhouettes standing or moving across the glade there were. The shadows flickered, changed shapes, became bigger or smaller, multiplied, only to vanish almost completely, leaving a faded memory that lingered in the air for a few seconds. Were they ghosts? Or maybe enchanted fawns, but John's human eyes and his human brain couldn't comprehend and process the magic? He didn't know. He could barely think, overwhelmed, and feeling so little, so insignificant against the ancient forces in front of him. The fumes from the fire made him dizzy on top of everything.

Fawnlock, his face full of determination, let go of John's hand and took one step more into the clearing. The whispers erupted again, muffled shouts, hundreds of voices, or maybe just echoes, speaking at once, the words an incomprehensible slur of angry sounds.

Fawnlock didn't step back, though the nervous flicking of his tail and the fact that his ears instinctively assumed submissive position showed that he wasn't as confident as he tried to appear. He lifted his hand, presumably to quieten the voices, and started speaking, not at all put off that the racket continued. The words were incomprehensible, but he must have been explaining the situation and what the human boy was even doing here.

John stood behind him, trying to look capable and serious, although on the inside he was howling in fear. If he broke down now, he wouldn't be able to help Mr Anderson. If that was even an option now. He just hoped that the fawns – if those were really the fawns –  remembered how he had saved Fawnlock before and even celebrated Halloween with them. Though that was something he himself couldn't recall well, much to his own chagrin.

A gust of murmurs speaking all at once rolled over the glade. How Fawnlock understood what they were saying was a mystery, but he had and he turned to his friend, a glint of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Jóhń frięńd, but muśt gó ńów. Mąń śtąy. Hę bąd. Vęry bąd. Hę dię.”

“He dies?!” John gasped, unable to believe it. Would they really kill Mr Anderson? That was... that was just... John couldn't let that happen. “What has he done to deserve being killed?”

Another eerie exchange between the shadows and Fawnlock.

“Mąń ćómę tó impórtąńt płącę. Mąń tąkę dąrk śtićk. Bąńg! Dęęr błęęd ąńd dęąd.”

John recoiled inwardly. Oh no... Mr Anderson really came here to poach. Was there a bigger crime for the forest folk? He had taken his gun, entered some place he wasn't supposed to and then shot an innocent deer dead. That was truly awful. But did killing a deer, as horrible as it was, warrant such a harsh punishment as death? Maybe John could plead with the fawns, explain how the things were in the human world, explain that to humans deer were just anima...

Oh no. John realised something, something that filled his stomach with a big block of ice. He stared at the prisoner with unseeing eyes.

But... had Mr Anderson really shot _just_ an animal? Yes, that was bad, however, not nearly as bad as killing a human being. Or a fawn...

John was suddenly transported into that moment when he and Fawnlock sat in his room near his bookshelf. The moment when Fawnlock told him about the death of his brother. While holding a small figurine of a deer.

John felt sick. How could he defend a man who was a murderer? Maybe there were some extenuating circumstances? Maybe he hadn't known what he was doing, confused by the fawn's appearance? Was it self-defence? Maybe he took a shot without making sure what he was aiming at? Maybe it was an accident? But did it really matter? Nothing could change what he had done, all the damage and pain he inflicted on the community. The forest wanted to see justice done and soak up the killer's blood.

“N-no... You can't kill him!” John protested weakly, not so convinced himself anymore.

When Fawnlock translated his words, something resembling a cynical snigger sounded all around the clearing. The shadows despised humanity, despised Mr Anderson, despised the little boy in front of them in their grief. Humans were nothing to them, meant less than a worm digging its hole in the ground under the roots of an oak tree. John knew that he hadn't been thrown out of the forest yet just because they found him amusing.

More whispers and Fawnlock relayed their question the best he could with his limited vocabulary.

“Humąń bóy why śąy ńó kiłł bąd mąń?”

“Because... because...” Because killing was wrong? No, that wouldn't convince them. It could barely convince him, a boy with high morals who hated to see people hurt. It made him wonder. Taking a life was wrong, but was it still so wrong when you wanted to avenge someone you loved? Or if you wanted to protect people you cared about? Maybe in such cases killing wasn't as bad anymore. And that was exactly how the situation looked like from the fawns' perspective. The hunter was an aggressor, a murderer. A threat that needed to be taken care of and eliminated for the sake of everyone living in the forest. Permanently. John swallowed hard. He had no idea what to say. His mind was completely empty. He wished his Papa was here. Papa would know what to do, what to say. He would resolve this situation immediately without even blinking an eye. His Papa was a hero and a good man. His Papa... Papa! John knew exactly what to say. “Because if you kill this man, there will be a little innocent boy crying alone in the village tomorrow, sad that he lost his father.”

He wasn't sure how faithfully Fawnlock translated his words, but after he finished speaking, no one responded. For a few heartbeats silence ruled over the glade. And then the shadows began their discussion. They seemingly ceased to pay any attention to the children in the clearing, so John risked coming a little closer to Fawnlock, nearly pressed against his back.

“What are they saying?” he whispered into his friend's ear, which stood up straight on alert.

“Lótś thińg. Thińkińg. Dęćidińg. Arguińg,” Fawnlock said with certain distaste, clicking his tongue.

There was nothing they could do but wait, so they stood patiently. Even Fawnlock was still, which was unusual. Not even bouncing on the balls of his feet like he often did. The situation was serious enough to require certain solemnity.

At least Fawnlock had some inkling of what was going on. John was completely in the dark. He felt anxious, like a prisoner awaiting the jury's verdict. Even though he wasn't the one on trial, potentially facing the death penalty, the wait was still emotional and frankly – scary. He was sweating so much that one could wring out his shirt and create a puddle.

After some time, John wasn't sure how long, the shadows seemed to reach some decision. John listened to one voice passing a sentence – the king or someone like that, perhaps? His throat was getting dry and his knees were weak.

Fawnlock gasped, visibly shocked. His nostrils flared, his tail flicked angrily, and he opened his mouth, yelling something. John had never seen him in such a state. The little fawn seemed as furious as he was scared. That mix couldn't bode well. John tried to ask him what was happening, but the fawn ignored him completely, so invested was he in the conflict. Finally, the shadow must have taken him to task and made him behave. Fawnlock's ears and shoulders slumped in defeat.

“What? What did they say?” John asked with desperation. “They won't let him go?”

Fawnlock didn't look at him as he spoke.

“Nóthińg, Jóhń. Gó hómę...”

“No! I'm not stupid! Tell me what they said!” John pleaded, putting his hand on Fawnlock's shoulder. The fawn grudgingly turned around to face him, the look of anger and sadness on his face.

“Śórry, Jóhń. Mąń dię. Or mąń góęś fręę ąńd Jóhń dię, ńót mąń.”

“What?” John muttered in shock, his eyes big as saucers. “He'll live if I take his place?”

Fawnlock nodded gingerly.

John realised his mouth was hanging open, so he closed it. Did they really want him to sacrifice himself? His own life for that of a killer? How was this fair? Or maybe they just needed one dead human and it didn't matter who would pay the price. The blood had to be spilled tonight. John was scared, terribly scared, even more than he was on his way here. He didn't want to die! He was so young, he didn't want to leave his mum alone! He didn't even like the Andersons! Philip was an ass, why should he do anything for him? Not having a dad would serve him right! If John could be fatherless, so could someone infinitely more deserving of that lot!

John became ashamed of these thoughts almost immediately after they appeared. How could he even think such things? His Papa would be disappointed if he knew. Papa would never hesitate. Papa had given his life to save others. Now it was John's turn to do the same. It wasn't fair but life was never fair, he knew that much.

The boy swallowed and started to approach the stone slab slowly. He took barely one step before Fawnlock grabbed his hand and forced him to stop.

“Jóhń! Ńó!” he whispered, terrified.

Although John was just as scared, he didn't relent. He gently extricated himself from Fawnlock's grip and offered him a smile. He wanted it to be comforting, but his features were distorted by fear.

“I have to. I'm sorry. You've been a good friend, Fawnlock. I hope you'll be fine when I'm gone.” John's voice was breaking, as he felt the tears welling in his eyes. He saw them in Fawnlock's too, the boy's lips clenched into a thin line so he wouldn't cry. John sniffed, nodded at him one last time, and then recommenced his walk towards the gagged man, ignoring Fawnlock's shouts. His glassy eyes were fixed on the adult human, though John wasn't sure if Mr Anderson was even aware what had just taken place. Aware that he was free. And that in a minute John would be the one laying on a cold stone altar, tied up by vines. What would the fawns do to him? Slit his throat? Tear him to pieces with their horns? Take out his beating heart like the Aztecs did? He just hoped that they would kill him quickly. Maybe a knife to the neck. He didn't want to suffer.

“I'm here! Take me!” he croaked, spreading his arms. “But let the man go back to his family! Promise that you won't hurt him if you kill me!”

Whispers again. One of the shadows came nearer, but it didn't walk. It sort of jerkily teleported every couple of feet when John blinked. It raised all the hair on his neck. He tried not to close his eyes, but they started to burn, so he had to close them for a split second.

The monster was right in front of him.

He didn't dare to scream, his voice had left him. There was something familiar about this shadow or maybe his senses were deceiving him once again, fried from stress and the weird incense in the air. The monster reached its gray hand towards the man. Mr Anderson wriggled and yelled through his gag, but the shadow paid no attention. He put his fingers on the man's forehead. An odd sound filled the air, like buzzing. When the shadow took his hand away, the man closed his eyes and went limp.

“Hey! You were supposed to spare him!” John squeaked piteously, too terrified to run. The monster turned and muttered something. Darkness consumed John and he fell inertly to the ground like a rag doll.

* * *

When John came round he realised it was already morning. The sun was climbing up the sky over the tree tops. For some reason John was on the ground near the border of the forest. He sat up with a groan, massaging his head as it pulsed with pain. The blurry memories of the night before slowly began to come back to him. What had happened to him? What had happened to...

Right next to him lay Mr Anderson. He was unconscious, but very much alive, his chest moving as he breathed. So they both survived. A shiver racked John's body. That was a truly terrifying experience. Why they were even alive, that was beyond John. Of course, he wouldn't complain.

Hoping that it would be fine to leave the man alone, John ran as fast as he could to the Andersons' home. He pounded on the door frantically and when Mrs Anderson finally opened, he blurted out that he had found her husband in the forest. Immediately, a group formed and John lead them to the sleeping poacher.

John became the hero of the village. His mother was confused as to how, and why he had managed to sneak out so early to the forest. Harry was indifferent as always, but his grandma beamed with pride. John was a little proud of himself as well, mainly because his father would have appreciated what he had done. But ultimately John was just happy that it was all over.

Mr Anderson woke up several hours later. He seemed unharmed, aside from traces of some unidentified drug in his bloodstream, but he had no memories of the time he was missing. For some reason, though, he felt extremely afraid of the forest and swore never to enter it again. He found also that he could no longer stand the sight of meat, and so from that day on, he became a vegan.


End file.
